


always cloudy

by ivelostmyspectacles



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Blind Character, Elias Bouchard Loses His Powers, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Fanart, M/M, Major Character Injury, Speculation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-27 06:09:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21113978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivelostmyspectacles/pseuds/ivelostmyspectacles
Summary: except for when you look into the pastIt’s blank and darkness before he does, and blank and darkness after. There is blood on his lips, salt on his face. He raises a hand to be sure his eyes are open. His fingers are slick, and drying sticky. His Sight is gone, and he can’tsee.





	always cloudy

It had been a lifetime, and then some, since he’d felt pain of this calibre. 

Certainly, there were always the residual effects of _ moving on, _ claiming another body for his facade and offering to The Beholding. The initial transaction _ had _ hurt, proper, but then that was decades ago– longer still, actually, but what was time but an irritant to a human shell?– but then… such was the selling of your soul, he supposed.

Dramatic effect.

He isn’t being dramatic now. It is _ truly _ agony, starbursts beneath closed eyes and the pulsing through his head. Phosphenes exploding and twisting in his sight, afterimages burning into the blackness and the faint trickle of dread he caught ebbing into his veins, just for a moment. Unfamiliar. Then ringing, a trickle of blood at his face and nose and mouth. Salt at his lips, hardwood beneath his palm. He doesn’t remember hitting the ground, but he can barely keep himself propped on a hand nonetheless.

The other hand remains at his eyes, throbbing, burning, torment.

He feels The Beholding shaking him to the core, screaming in his head. The crescendo of static and singing, splintering off all at once like a glass shattering to slivers–

– it hurts, like a million, tiny pieces. And then, all of it stops.

The sudden absence is… almost terrifying. Not common, that. Terror, or silence. He feels for the The Beholding’s touch, the press of it on his mind and body and beneath his skull. And… it isn’t there. The hum of power, gone from his mind, replaced by… by _ nothing. _ He can’t call The Sight, and he just feels _ empty. _

Something, deep down, something very human and emotionally raw, starts to swirl. He tries to shove it back, calls out for The Eye with his mind as he’s always done, but there’s–

“… Elias?”

He withdraws from the voice, and wrenches his eyes open. It’s blank and darkness before he does, and blank and darkness after. There is blood on his lips, salt on his face. He raises a hand to be sure his eyes are open. His fingers are slick, and drying sticky. His Sight is gone, and he can’t _ see. _

“Elias…?” Jon repeats, sounding nervous.

Another swell of agony. Anger. His hand shakes, and he curls it into a fist. “What did you _ do.” _

“I–I–”

_ “What did you do.” _

“Nothing! I’ve– I’ve been _ here.” _

“What did _ they _ do?”

His sight is gone. The Beholding is gone. His immortality is gone, Jonah is– Jonah is gone, inasmuch as he still remained. He’s… _ human, _now. Again.

Perhaps that’s the moment he starts to shake, or perhaps he’s been trembling all along. All he knows is that he becomes aware of it, then, as Jon stammers through a response.

“I– I don’t know–”

_ “Bullshit.” _ He means to snarl, but it comes out a whisper beneath his breath. Another flash of anger. Another flash of fear. _ Human. Blind, _in every sense of the word.

“I didn’t– I didn’t–” Jon starts and stops and blurts all at once, “I didn’t _ know.” _

Elias tries to breathe. It’s barely familiar, even after the many, many years he’s been doing it on reflex. Inhale and exhale. His lungs ache. His body shakes. Human.

“You, uhh– you’re not–”

“I can’t _ See,” _ he retorts. It’ll hit its effect. Jon will _ Know. _ He probably already does. “Anything,” he continues stiffly, and finally lowers his hand from his face. It doesn’t matter. Jon will have seen the blood already. He’s dripping with it, weighed down by its viscosity. Maybe, it’s dripping to the floor. He sits back on his ankles, and clenches both fists on his knees.

It is his just deserts, but, right now, Elias isn’t in much mood for being _ rational. _

“Do you…” Jon manages eventually. “… need help…?”

_ No. _ He does withhold the word, the first thing to fall to the tip of his tongue with the taste of bitterness and fear. He forces another breath, and wonders if he glares when he replies. “I can _ manage, _ Jon.” He practically vibrates with the force of the emotion churning in his gut. Just below his skin, so strong he’s certain the thin layer of flesh can’t withhold it. He’s forgotten _ this _ kind of existence. “I don’t need _ pity.” _

“… fine.” There’s a pause, and then the step of shoes moving back. The anger evaporates again. Elias very nearly pitches forward. “Fine,” Jon repeats, voice flat.

If Elias tries– very, _ very _ hard– he thinks he can still _ feel _ Jon. Feel… Feel The Beholding, feel the thrum of Power from Jon like he’d felt from the beginning. The kinship from their shared patron, their duty and loyalty. Familiar. Comfortable. Jon still _ Feels _ and _ Sees _ and _ Knows, _ and that should make Elias _ angry, _ and it does, in turns, but… listening to him step back, feeling the Power slip away, Elias feels himself _ panic _ instead.

“Wai–”

Fear, an old, terrifying thing.

He forces back the plea, barely. Swallows it down, and then swallows again, another mouthful of blood and… _ silence, _ pounding at his eardrums. The clock, in his office. One, two, three seconds. Ticking, pounding, choking. He swallows against the taste of bile on his tongue, and then can’t help himself any longer.

“Jon…?” he breathes, and tries to follow him before he’s pulled to a halt by the sheer insecurity that’s come.

The sigh barely alerts him, and the touch to his shoulder _ startles _ him. He cringes sideways, and Jon’s hand tightens.

“Come on, then.”

“Why?” he manages, once Jon’s gotten him back to his feet and is guiding him… somewhere. _ Why? I don’t understand. The Knowledge isn’t there. I can’t _See– 

“Because I’m your Archivist.”

Elias jolts, staggering a step before Jon steadies him again.

“Right?” Jon continues, dry, and his voice is somewhere close to Elias’s left ear. 

He doesn’t turn to face him. It’s disconcerting, and besides, he thinks he doesn’t want to. “Not so sure you’re _ my _ Archivist anymore,” he mutters. That asides, Jon had always been _ Jonah’s; _ Jon, a facet of The Magnus Institute, and one of Jonah Magnus’s belongings.

“So then we start again,” Jon says, careful and calculated. Tentative. Determined. “And, this time, do it right.”

A bit too late. But then, maybe not. Jon hasn’t taken his hand, merely a guiding hand at his wrist or back. Uncertain. Like so many things. Maybe not too late. Maybe they’d see.

“Maybe,” he says out loud, and allows Jon to help him to the sofa.

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by [this post by @itsprettybent because I saw this and was possessed](https://twitter.com/Itsprettybent/status/1185295452251590656)
> 
> human!Elias going through the five stages of grief in the span of thirty seconds while also coming back into the negative emotions he probably stopped feeling over the past however many years he's been alive _while _being newly blinded is a Chaotic Mess, but.... hey...... Jon's still there...


End file.
